


atlas

by orphan_account



Series: qui pro domina justitia sequitur [4]
Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - US 21st c., Real Person Fiction
Genre: Difficult Decisions, Dramatization of Real Events, Introspection, but still if the fbi is reading this i would like someone to come and stop me from doing this, look did you think i wouldn't do this i mean this is my freaking m.o. this is what i do, please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-10 14:59:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11129187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He's going to wake up tomorrow and make history again.





	atlas

**Author's Note:**

> ~~God. Why do I keep doing this?~~   
>  ~~Though, I do appreciate the shoutout of this ship on Pod Save America. Thanks, Lovett.~~
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> If you haven't seen Comey's opening statement for tomorrow (on 6/8/2017), then [check it out now](https://t.co/jW8JWKU4rl). It's lit.

It’s his first briefing with the incoming administration and if Jim is being honest with himself, he’s feeling more than a little sick at the prospect. It’s the end of a tumultuous year and the beginning of one that feels equally as turbulent and volatile as the man who will now be the President of the United States.

And part of Jim can’t help but think he’s the one who got this man into office – a man whose associates he’s currently investigating. But, well, no one really knows about that yet. They only know about the investigation into the Russian interference, not about how it pertains to the administration.

Which is why Clapper, in his infinite wisdom, picks Jim to stay behind and brief the president on the Steele dossier – and, of course, the “pee tape”. It’s a testament to how seriously everyone is treating the material that no one bursts into laughter thinking about it, least of all Jim.

He waits until the rest of the IC is gone to sit down with the President-elect and explain to him what the dossier contains. He nods along to everything Jim is saying, but there’s a strong part of Jim that doubts he really knows what’s going on.

 _Just like W,_ Jim thinks, and he bites the inside of his cheek.

“Uh-huh,” Trump says, when Jim is finished speaking. “So the FBI is looking into this for me?”

“The FBI is investigating this,” Jim nods. He clears his throat. “Let me be clear, sir, that we’re not investigating you personally. It’s more of an investigation into your associates and those in your orbit.”

“Uh-huh,” Trump says again, and there’s something in his expression. Something that makes Jim feel uneasy, and the fact that he can’t quite pin down why makes him feel worse.

He’s barely slid into the car when he pulls out his laptop and begins typing up the events of the meeting. There’s not much to discuss, granted, but it helps put him a little at ease about, well, whatever was coming over him back in the conference room. Hell, there’s a chance it was just a reaction to the gaudy décor and the rather repugnant scent in the air.

Jim checks the date and time when he finishes. January 9th. Eleven days until the Obama administration is over. Eleven days.

He shuts the laptop and covers his face with his hand. Eleven days, then four years. How’s he going to make it?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is definitely the worst dinner Jim has ever had in his life.

When he got the call about it, Rybicki had joked that, “You better hope he doesn’t try to feed you overcooked steak with ketchup,” and Jim had just rolled his eyes in response.

Except now, he’d rather eat that steak instead of sitting here, alone, with only the President across from him, in the Green Room, just the two of them.

Did he mention that he, the director of the FBI, is alone with the President of the United States? Because he’s not sure he’s made a big enough deal about it yet. Because this is the most uncomfortable he’s ever been in his entire life and he reopened the email investigation a few months ago.

“So, Jim,” Trump says, lifting his Diet Coke to his lips, “do you, uh, want to stay on as FBI Director?”

Jim blinks. “Excuse me?” he replies, voice as neutral as he could get it.

“You know, you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” Trump continues. “There are plenty of people who want your job, lots of people – a job at the FBI would be a great job. And you had a lot happen last year – the media attacked you, the liberals attacked you, the Democrats attacked you. If you want to go, you can go.”

Jim blinks again. He reaches over to his glass of water and takes a slow sip. This was not what he was expecting, but then again, there’s something to it that does make some sort of sense, in whatever way this man did business – and this was business. If Jim asked for his job like this, then there was a chance it would be seen as an act of patronage in Trump’s eyes, as though now he had the Director of the FBI under his influence.

And that was completely unacceptable.

“With all due respect, Mr. President,” Jim says carefully, “I don’t plan on resigning anytime soon. I enjoy working at the FBI, I love the work that I do, and I fully intend to serve out my ten-year term as Director.” He pauses a moment. There’s a chance – of course there is, with this President – that his position is not clear.

“I also want to make it clear,” he adds, after another sip, “that while I may not be… ‘reliable’, in the way politicians use that word, but you can always count on me to tell the truth.”

“The truth,” Trump repeats.

“The truth.” He clears his throat. “I’m not on anybody’s side politically – you might’ve seen that from the media coverage of the FBI’s investigation into Mrs. Clinton’s email server. But, rest assured, this is in the best interest of the country, and of yourself, Mr. President.”

“I see,” Trump says. He lowers his glass. “Jim… I need loyalty, Jim. I _expect_ loyalty.”

Jim doesn’t move, he barely breathes, he doesn’t even blink. He must’ve heard wrong, he really must have, because there is no way on Earth that the President of the United States just asked him for his loyalty.

There’s a beat of silence. Then another. Then another. Trump stares at him and he stares at Trump and Jim wonders how telling it would be if he just grabbed his head and screamed when Trump finally turns back down to his food and says, “So, Jim, what do you think about the travel ban?”

 _Oh thank fucking god,_ Jim thinks. He drains his glass of water and says, “I would prefer not to comment on that.”

“Why not?”

 _Dear Lord, this can’t be happening._ Jim lets out a subtle sigh and clears his throat. “Mr. President, you need to understand – the Justice Department and, by extension, the FBI, have to be completely independent of the White House.” He leans forward, elbows on the table as he gesticulates and tries to explain, in as simple terms as he can muster, why exactly this is.

“If you blur the boundaries between the DOJ and the administration, the integrity of the institutions come under fire and the problem just grows worse,” he concludes. His glass of water is empty. His food is untouched. He can’t believe he’s explaining this to the President.

And all Trump says is, “Okay, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Jim leans back into his seat and prays to God his stomach doesn’t growl or anything like that – he can’t show any sign of weakness at this point. Not now, and possibly not ever.

Dessert arrives in the form of ice cream, but just looking at it makes Jim’s stomach fall into a pit. He pushes the bowl away and one of the stewards takes it away, to the clear surprise of Trump.

“You don’t want dessert, Jim?” he asks.

“No,” Jim says. “I’m not hungry.”

Trump nods slowly. He licks his spoon clean and keeps nodding. “You know,” he says, after a moment, “that whole – dossier thing – that’s completely fake. You know that, right? I never did anything that’s in there, it’s entirely fake news. Very, very fake news.”

Jim doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure he should.

And then Trump says, “You should investigate it. Prove that it didn’t happen. Because it didn’t, and the people deserve to know that. The American people should know that I never did this.”

“Mr. President,” Jim says, and he’s not sure he’s ever spoken this slowly this many times ever in his life, “that might not be a good decision. It could be construed that the FBI is investigating you, and it would be difficult to prove we aren’t.”

Trump narrows his eyes and presses his lips together, tapping his bowl with his spoon. “I’ll think about it,” he finally concedes. “You think about it too.”

“Okay,” Jim says. _Anything to get out of here._

They’re almost finished with dessert and Jim is almost free – _almost_ – and then Trump just _has_ to go back to what they were talking about earlier. He starts by buttering Jim up, talking about all the praise he’s heard from his advisors like “Mad Dog” and “Jeff” and others and Jim just feels his stomach churn.

He’s afraid what’s going to come next.

“I need loyalty, Jim,” he says.

Jim takes a moment to keep his voice level. “You will always get honesty from me,” he says. One of his hands is under the table and his knuckles are turning white.

“That’s what I want,” Trump nods. “Honest loyalty.”

 _What the fuck is that?_ Jim thinks, but the stewards are due to come back in at any moment and he really doesn’t want to be in here any longer than he has to so he says, “You will get that from me.”

He waits until he’s all the way back inside this car to let out the longest breath he’s ever held, then gets the laptop out again. “Could we stop at McDonald’s or something on our way back?” he asks once they start driving. “I’m starving.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I want to speak to Jim alone, please,” Trump says, at the end of the brief.

Jim doesn’t move. _Oh dear God, please, no_. The officials around him start to leave the Oval Office and he looks over at Sessions. He lingers, briefly, in his chair, but then the President says, “Thank you for coming, Jeff, but I need to speak to Jim alone.”

Sessions starts to get up, and Jim wonders how untoward it would be to lunge at him and force him to stay.

To his surprise, Kushner doesn’t leave immediately. He stands over Jim’s chair, a pleasant but ultimately blank expression on his face, and Jim wonders if the desperation in his eyes is evident.

But then Trump dismisses him too and Jim watches the last buffer between him and the President walk through the door and have it closed behind him. The clock chimes and Trump begins by saying, “I want to talk about Mike Flynn.”

 _Jesus Christ_. Jim keeps his hands in his lap and keeps his mouth shut, listening to Trump’s defensive tirade on behalf of Flynn before starting to veer off into discussing the leaking of classified information.

Jim wonders when he should intervene when there’s a knock from behind him and the door opens, Reince Priebus’ head sticking through and subtle mumbles of conversation and chatter behind him. “Mr. President –”

“I’m almost done, Reince, close the door.” Trump waves his hand dismissively and Priebus gives Jim a look of empathetic pity before following instructions.

Trump turns his attention back to Jim, folding one hand over the other as he tries to look as earnest as possible. “Mike is a good guy and has been through a lot,” he says. “He hadn’t done anything wrong with calling the Russians, but he lied to Mike – the other Mike, Mike Pence – and so I had no choice, I had to let him go.” He shakes his head, almost solemnly, letting out a slow breath as he meets Jim’s gaze.

“I hope you can see your way clear to letting this go, to letting Flynn go,” he says. “He is a good guy. I hope you can let this go.”

_Dear God in Heaven, why is this happening?_

“He is a good guy,” Jim says, and that’s all he says. It’s not a lie, but it’s nothing more. He waits a couple of moments, just to make sure Trump isn’t going to try and pressure him further, before getting to his feet. “Excuse me, Mr. President, but I have an appointment to get to.”

He barely waits for permission to open the door and head out. The crowd naturally disperses and lets him pass through, and he notices clearly the expressions on Priebus’ and Pence’s faces as he goes by.

His computer is in his lap and he’s typing with one hand while calling Rybicki on his phone. “Get the leadership team together – McCabe and Baker, especially,” he says. “You will not _believe_ what’s just happened.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You will not believe how bad this Russia investigation is for me,” Trump says at the start of the phone call. “It’s like a cloud – it’s stopping me from doing my job.”

Jim wants to ask how a cloud would stop him from doing his job but he holds his tongue and says nothing in response. By now, he knows a little bit on how to deal with these types of conversations – and the first rule is, don’t say anything unless asked.

“I had nothing to do with Russia,” Trump continues. “Nothing. I won the Electoral College all on my own. And I never had sex with hookers in Russia – I don’t have to pay people to have sex with me. That’s a fact. And I know – well, I have a feeling and I’m pretty sure it’s true – that I was being watched there, when I was in Russia. Jim, can you do this for me – can the FBI try and lift this cloud?”

Jim rests his head against his hand and rubs his temples. He feels like he’s going to pass out, puke, or both. “We’re investigating the matter as quickly as we can,” he says, pushing back a sigh. “And in this case, no news is good news. If we don’t find anything, that’s to great benefit.”

“Yes,” Trump says, “but it’s still causing a whole lot of problems.”

 _Believe me, I fucking know._ Jim bites his tongue.

Trump sighs. “Okay, so, Jim, tell me why there was a hearing about Russia last week?”

Jim should’ve known this would come up. He clears his throat. “Sir, the leadership of both parties demanded more information regarding the investigation into the Russian involvement into the election. Senator Grassley even held up the confirmation of Rod Rosenstein for this – and I know you and the administration have had problems with how slow the confirmation process is going.”

“Yes, that’s true…”

“All we did was brief the leadership of Congress on exactly which individuals we are investigating,” Jim says, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. “And we expressly told them that we were not personally investigating you – as I’ve repeatedly mentioned.”

“You keep saying,” Trump says, and there’s a certain haughtiness to his tone. “Reince told me you wouldn’t fight back on what the media is saying. We need to get the fact out that I’m not under investigation.”

Jim doesn’t know what he can say that won’t sound a little insubordinate, so he doesn’t say anything at all.

“If some, say, satellite associates of mine – guys I’m not close with anymore – did something wrong, then it would be good to find that out,” Trump says. “But,” he quickly adds, “I didn’t do anything wrong and I hope you can make that clear.”

“Okay, Mr. President,” Jim says, for lack of anything better. His head feels like it’s about to burst and he really hopes that the conversation will be over soon.

Of course, it isn’t. “You know, you should be a little glad that I haven’t brought up the McCabe thing,” Trump says, all of a sudden.

The headache is suddenly gone and Jim sits up straight. “Excuse me, sir?”

“I know you say he’s an honorable man,” Trump continues, as though Jim hadn’t said anything. “But there’s the fact that Terry – Terry McAuliffe – that guy was close to the Clintons and he gave money to McCabe’s campaign. And that doesn’t sound very honorable to me.”

Jim’s first instinct is to snap, because that type of insinuation is completely ludicrous – especially considering who it’s coming from and who it’s referring to – but he takes a breath and says, calmly as he can, “I assure you, Mr. President, that Deputy Director McCabe is an honorable man.”

_He’s more honorable than me._

“Uh-huh,” Trump says. He lets out a sigh. “Look, Jim, this cloud is stopping me from making deals for the country and I hope you can tell people I’m not under investigation.”

“I will see what we can do,” Jim concedes, as little as he can. “We will do our investigative work as well and as quickly as we can.”

“Good.”

Trump hangs up without a goodbye and Jim’s head is back to feeling like it’s going to explode. He calls Boente and starts typing up the next of the memos. He wonders what will become of them, in years to come. Maybe nothing.

But, maybe something.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He’s just gotten into his office and his coffee is still warm when the President calls again. He picks up and lets him speak first.

“Jim,” he says, starting without pleasantries, “what have to done to get out that I’m not under investigation?”

Jim sets the phone on speaker and puts it on the desk as he scrolls through his email. “I passed your request to Deputy Attorney General Boente, but I haven’t gotten a response back.”

“This cloud is getting in the way of the country, Jim. I can’t do my job with it.” His tone is, briefly, a little menacing and it gets a little worse as he continues. “Maybe my people should reach out to Dana instead.” He pauses a moment. “What kind of name is Dana for a man?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Jim sighs. He takes a short sip of his coffee and wills his headache to subside. “But that is how your request should be handled. The White House Counsel should contact the DOJ leadership – not the FBI – to make this case.”

“Okay, sounds good,” Trump says. He doesn’t hang up, though, and there’s a moment of awkward silence that makes Jim wonder if he just forgot to – when he speaks again. “I’m going to do that, because I’ve been very loyal to you, very loyal. We had that thing, you know.”

The thing is, Jim doesn’t know and, quite frankly, he doesn’t care. “Have Mr. McGahn contact Mr. Boente.”

“I will,” Trump says. “Have a good day, Jim.”

“You too, Mr. President.”

The call ends and Jim sets his head on his desk and lets out a long and heavy sigh. He can’t believe it’s only April.

There’s still so long to go.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And then, there isn’t.

Because he’s fired.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He wakes up in the middle of the night and gets out of bed. Patrice is still sleeping soundly and he does his best to be as quiet as possible as he heads into the liquor cabinet and pulls out a bottle of the first thing he sees.

His phone is quietly exploding with messages from friends, from family, from strangers – all about the statement released today and the testimony he’s going to give tomorrow.

The time blinks on the microwave. 12:01 a.m.

Never mind – it’s the testimony he’s going to give today.

He leans back against the countertop and takes slow sips from his drink, trying to clear his head. He’s prepared, he really is. He went over everything, he knows what happened, all he has to do is tell the committee members the truth as well as he remembers it and as well as he documented it and he should be fine.

It takes him a couple of seconds to realize that the hand that’s holding his drink is shaking, liquid splashing around and ice clinking against the edges, and he sets the glass down.

And then, because there’s no one he can turn to, he swallows down his pride and takes his phone to call the one man who can ease his mind.

Bob picks up at the first ring. “I thought you’d be awake.” His voice is a little gravelly but still soft and deep and relief immediately settles into Jim’s body, down to his bones. “How are you feeling?”

“I can’t sleep,” Jim admits. “I’m feeling nauseous.”

“Mildly nauseous or regular nauseous?”

That elicits a laugh from Jim and he stifles it with the back of his hand, unable to resist a smile. “You know what I mean.”

“I know, I know,” Bob chuckles. “You just need to relax, Jim. You know it’s going to go well – you have the truth on your side.”

“I know, but…” he pauses, trailing off unintentionally. “It’s just… it’s been a stressful time, Bob, you know that, and it’s culminating into this singular moment and, well… It’s a lot to take in.”

“I understand,” Bob says, and it’s clear he genuinely does. “Is Patrice awake?”

“No, I’m letting her sleep in,” Jim says. “She’s gotta wake up as early as I do to make it to the hearing on time.”

“Okay.” There’s some shuffling on the other end and then Bob says, “I wish I could be there with you right now.”

“I wish so too,” Jim says quietly. His glass is empty and he could go and get more but he’d rather just stand here, listening to Bob and letting his voice wash over him in waves of relaxation. There’s something about him that just puts Jim at ease and it’s a wonderful feeling.

“Do you want me to go over my notes from our meeting?” Bob asks.

Jim nods. “That would be nice.”

“Lucky for you, I’m already going over them.” He chuckles again and clears his throat, starting to read aloud.

Jim doesn’t pay much attention to the content, just leans back and listens. His eyes drift shut and he finds one of his hands reaching under his pants and starting to rub idly at his dick. He’s already half-hard – which, if he thinks about it, makes him sound like a teenager because either he’s hard just from listening to Bob speak or just by thinking about him – and he rubs himself almost casually.

Bob is still speaking, and Jim thinks back to those few times they were together – him on his knees, eyes half-lidded as he looks up at Bob and takes him in his mouth; Bob kissing him, tasting of pasta sauce and cherry wine, with his hand sliding up Jim’s thigh; Jim grabbing his back and biting his shoulder, tears spilling from his eyes as Bob fucks him gently, lips pressed against his jaw as he whispers sweet, soothing nothings –

Jim bites his bottom lip and comes without a word, Bob’s name on the tip of his tongue. He lets out a slow sigh and shakes his head.

Bob stops reading. “Jim? Are you okay?”

Jim clears his throat. “I’m fine,” he says, voice coming out hoarse and uneven. “I… thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Bob says. His smile is evident in his tone as he says, “You’re going to be fine, Jim. Trust me.”

“I do,” Jim whispers. “I hope we can get together again, when all of this is over.”

“I hope so too,” Bob sighs. “I would really like that.”

There’s a pause where they don’t say anything at all, both knowing fully well they should hang up and get to rest but neither of them willing to break this moment. And then Jim can’t stop his yawn and Bob says, “You should get some rest. I’ll try to get in touch after the hearing, if I can.”

“Okay,” Jim says. He wipes his hand on his pants and pauses a moment. “Goodnight, Bob.”

“Goodnight, Jim.”

Bob hangs up first, and Jim stays in the kitchen for a few minutes longer before washing his hands and heading back to bed. He really should get a full night’s sleep.

He’s going to wake up tomorrow and make history again.

**Author's Note:**

> can't wait for the testimony tomorrow.


End file.
